


Stitches

by BrevitySoulWit93



Series: Only For You [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Arthur wants to learn to sew, Canon Era, Cuddling, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Flirting, Fluff, Healing, Idiots in Love, M/M, Protective Merlin, Soulmates, magical husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:47:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29142483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrevitySoulWit93/pseuds/BrevitySoulWit93
Summary: Merlin does a lot of things for Arthur that are well outside his job description. It just so happens that teaching the prince to sew, nursing his wounds and cuddling him better have been added without his knowledge. Still, neither of them are complaining.
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Only For You [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2138946
Comments: 11
Kudos: 222
Collections: Numerous OTPS Infinite Fandoms





	Stitches

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to The Cure, part of a new series which is basically just Arthur and Merlin taking care of each other. You don't have to read The Cure first but it's super sweet and fluffy and referenced in this fic so would recommend!

Flickering candlelight was by no means the most ideal circumstance in which to find yourself sewing. The manservant squinted in the half light, leaning so close to the fabric in his hand that the tip of his nose brushed it gently any time he moved. Endeavouring to the keep the stitches neat, he worked with a diligent, entirely uncharacteristic focus. Across the room, the prince heaved a deep sigh from where he lounged in his sleeping clothes, eyes passing noncommittally over the sheathes of parchment spread on the table before him. Giving it all up for a bad job and deciding to carelessly shirk his responsibilities, the blonde stood, and on bare feet padded across to where his friend and servant sat ensconced by the fire. He peered inquisitively at his pale, nimble hands.

“We have maids to do that kind of work, don’t we?” Arthur asked, folding himself cross legged onto the heaped furs and skins on the cold stone floor. Merlin did not raise his eyes from the task in hand.

“We do, yes. Gwen always offers, actually. If you care to recall, there are lots of things I don’t need to do for you - mucking out your stables, for one, and darning your clothes for another. But, contrary to popular belief, I like to take care of you,” Merlin stated matter-of-factly. He folded his lips together and knit his brows as Arthur leaned into his light to inspect the repair work to this most favoured of red tunics.

“Loathe as I am to admit it, you are quite good,” nodded Arthur, taking in the neat little rows of stitches and the way the patch seemed to blend in with the original fabric. “My things get damaged so often, wouldn’t it be easier for you to just… you know…” He trailed off, waving his hands in an abstract manner.

On reflex, Merlin’s eyes finally flicked towards the door. Closed and bolted, just as he had left it, but the omnipresent prickle of anxiety still made itself known at the back of his neck. Even in the sanctum of Arthur’s chambers, this, the safest of all safe places, he was still afraid to acknowledge his magic. Since the first instance of relieving Arthur of his headache a few weeks previously - with a spell strong enough they both fell asleep, tangled together in the window-seat for all to see - the prince had been more eager than ever to allow Merlin free reign with his powers within these walls. Even the simplest things such as lighting a candle or heating the bathwater made the golden king-to-be smile a little brighter: the innate goodness of Merlin’s spells was re-moulding his long held belief that all sorcery was evil. On top of this, twice more had they fallen asleep on that window-seat after Merlin had willed away Arthur’s aches with just the smoothing of his palm and the flash of his eyes.

Merlin looked down at Arthur now where he leaned back on one palm (he seemed to be favouring his left tonight, a matter which Merlin would broach later) bathed in the firelight. The dancing of the flames burnished his hair so that it appeared the colour of molten honey - the Greek kind which docked with the trade ships at Tintagel. He wore his sleep trousers and the white tunic with the indecently plunging neckline; the downy hair of his chest on full display, Arthur tilted his head back to revel in the warm glow beside him. Merlin swallowed against the desire to press the flat of his tongue to the long, sweeping column of Arthur’s neck. They were friends and nothing more, if one ignored the small matter of destiny.

“I prefer to do this kind of thing by hand,” he said instead, inspecting his work and then setting it aside with a pleased nod. “There’s a certain kind of satisfaction to it. Having never worked with your hands in your life, I’m not sure it’s one you’d understand.”

Squawking indignantly, Arthur lunged forwards to tug Merlin onto the furs beside him. He looked so young like this, Merlin realised - his blonde hair shining and silky from his earlier bath, bare toes wiggling in the rich pelts below them.

“Teach me, then!” he demanded petulantly, every inch the spoiled brat he pretended to be. Merlin’s eyes rolled and his lips pursed in feigned annoyance even as he searched around for a spare piece of fabric to let the prince practice on.

The sorcerer jerked his head to indicate Arthur should shuffle closer as he unwound the red neckerchief he donned every other day. Truly, it was long overdue replacing, so Merlin wasn’t overly heartsick about turning it over to Arthur’s clumsy attempts at sewing. With a start, he realised Arthur had indeed come closer - much closer than expected. He’d crooked one long, lithe leg over Merlin’s where it stretched out towards the far wall, and folded the other in front of himself in the mirror image of Merlin’s own, so their knees touched.

Apparently entirely unaffected by the proximity, Arthur leaned forward with an exuberant eagerness dancing in his pale eyes. Merlin smiled, seeing the young scholar he had once been, so full of zeal of learning and a love for knowledge which he tried so hard to hide. After retrieving his needle and thread, the pair leaned so close their foreheads almost brushed, all the better to see by the dancing firelight.

“First things first - you have to thread your needle. It can be quite tricky… You need a steady hand,” Merlin explained, slipping the fine thread through the tiny needle eye in one practiced motion.

“It can’t be that hard, little girls do it!” guffawed Arthur, immediately fumbling with the utensils. He dropped the thread and impaled his thumb on the sharp tip of the needle, yelping in surprise and pain. Laughing unreservedly as Arthur scrabbled for the remnants of his dignity, Merlin gathered together the dropped items and set them upon his leg.

“Look, you great prat. You’re bleeding,” he muttered, giving voice to a long-suffering sigh. “I went quite deep. You’ll have to suck it.” 

Arthur looked askance at his friend, cradling the offended digit in the palm of his other hand.

“And what purpose would that serve?” he barked, a flush creeping onto his face.

“It’ll stop the bleeding. Honestly, just suck it, you clotpole.”

“I shall do no such thing!”

“Gods, you really are a battle hardened warrior, aren’t you?” Merlin groaned. “Give it here, then.”

Without thinking, he enclosed Arthur’s sword-callused palm in his own and sucked the poor, abused thumb into his mouth without permission. Arthur, for his part, made no protest. He simply watched, slack jawed, as Merlin laved at his fingertip with a warm, slick tongue. Silently thankful that the tang of blood made the gesture decidedly un-erotic, at least to his mind, Merlin smirked as he dried Arthur’s thumb off with the edge of his sleeve.

“There we go, all better,” he snarked, inwardly delighting at the not insubstantial amount of time it took for Arthur to reconnect his brain to his body. “Shall we try again?”

More carefully, Arthur threaded the needle with a satisfied smile. The student watched patiently as Merlin then proceeded to show him a few example stitches, before guiding the princes elegant hands with his own as he drew the thread back and forth in a wandering, ungainly row. The tip of Arthur’s tongue poked out between his teeth as he worked, handling the rough spun neckerchief with the same respect as if it were the finest of Morgana’s silk gowns.

It was with a shy smile and a rare softness in his eyes that Arthur held out the small square of fabric for Merlin’s appraisal, fine bone needle pinched carefully between his long fingers.

“Not half bad,” the brunette nodded approvingly, before showing his companion how to tie off and then snip the needle free. Arthur inspected his own handiwork with a private, pleased quirk of his mouth that softened Merlin’s heart.

“I think I probably owe you a new neckerchief,” Arthur smiled, making to hand it back to his friend. Scoffing, Merlin threw it lightly into his face which was only inches away.

“Keep it as a reminder of the joys of real hard work,” he grinned impishly. The blonde laughed and then winced, circling his left shoulder with a pained grimace. There it was, the chance Merlin had been waiting for. “Did you hurt yourself in training today?” Merlin queried, reaching out uninvited to press the heel of his hand to the front of the injured joint.

“I just twisted oddly in practice with Percival. Gaius gave me some herbs for the pain, but I think they’re wearing off,” Arthur admitted, immediately sliding yet closer and resting his forehead on Merlin’s own bony shoulder. This was clearly meant as a silent plea for help, and wordless permission for the sorcerer to do what he must to take his pain away.

“That explains why your breath smells like rosemary,” Merlin mumbled fondly, his voice lost in the chasm of his throat.

Drunk on the spicy-sweet scent of the man he adored, Merlin slid his free hand around to bracket Arthur’s shoulder. He pressed lightly on the hearth warmed skin he could feel through the thin tunic, reaching out with golden tendrils of his magic - there was the injury, plain as day. He could see it in his minds eye: a minute, barely there tear in the muscle of the rotator cuff. Three months recovery for a normal person, but mere moments for the love of Merlin’s life (because, damn it all, that’s exactly what he was).

Murmuring under his breath, Merlin mended the wounded muscle as he had mended the torn tunic, stitching it back together with even more care and pouring so much love into it that tears rose to his eyes. Moving deftly, Merlin manipulated the arm this way and that, a stream of syllables spilling forth from his full lips in a torrent. With a deep, contented sigh, Arthur’s hand came to rest on Merlin’s thigh and he turned in towards the pale neck, so rarely bare, nosing at the fawn-soft and alabaster white skin there.

The sorcerer was certain there was no way the prince could fail to notice the way his heart had begun to hammer in his chest at the intimacy of their position, but as had become their habit of late, it went unremarked.

Tentatively, with one palm still planted firmly just a breath away from Arthur’s collarbone, Merlin slid his hand down the length of the prince’s arm - he paused for a fraction of a second to appreciate the slim, fine-boned wrist, before threading their fingers loosely together and manoeuvring the hand back and forth.

“How is it now?” Merlin asked, the soft plumpness of his lips brushing the shell of Arthur’s ear. The prince moaned in response, a deep rumble in his chest which sent Merlin to all kinds of places he should most definitely not be going.

“ _Wonderful_ ,” came the muffled reply. Arthur chose that moment to knock the beaming smile from Merlin’s face by flopping bonelessly forwards, pressing the full weight of his powerful frame against Merlin’s much more slight build. “I’m so tired,” he added with a yawn. “I’m sure you only do this to shut me up.”

Merlin’s laugh was low and private as he struggled to disentangle himself from the prince, who allowed himself to be pulled to his feet with little complaint. A crimson corner of the neckerchief protruded from his trouser pocket, and Merlin wondered dimly when the blonde had stowed it there.

“Make sure you take your boots off before you get into my bed,” Arthur said stoically, whipping back the blankets without waiting for Merlin to turn down the covers for him and flopping in face first.

The brunette stood in the middle of the floor, dark brows knit tightly in confusion.

“What do you mean, before I get into your bed?”

“You’re staying here tonight,” Arthur stated, patting the empty expanse of mattress next to him. “You always stay with me after you’ve healed me. It feels nice,” he added almost plaintively, turning his face away as though trying to seem less pathetic.

“That’s true. I’ve just never slept in your bed before.”

“Well, that’s a lie if ever I heard one. I’ve found you dozing off here at least twice!”

“Yes, but never with you in it.”

“Just shut up and get into bed, Merlin.”

Apparently, a sleepy Arthur meant a needy Arthur, for as soon as Merlin had toed off his boots, cast his brown jacket away and crawled atop the mattress which felt like heaven on earth, he found himself being used as a pillow by the crown prince of Camelot. Arthur had slithered over to wedge himself between Merlin’s legs, flaxen head pillowed on bony chest, large hands bracketing the cage of Merlin’s ribs.

“‘M not too heavy, am I?” Arthur asked solicitously, clearly already mostly asleep. Merlin tried a deep breath.

“Not too uncomfortable,” Merlin lied. “It’s quite a nice weight, actually. Calming,” he added, both of which were not lies. Arthur hummed happily.

“That’s good. Get the lights, Merlin.”

“I’ve just got into bed and I’ve got a bloody hulking fighting machine weighing me down! How am I supposed to do that?”

Arthur sat up on his forearms with a disdainful glare.

“Get the lights, _Mer_ lin,” he repeated, raising his wearied brows. “With _magic._ ”

“Ah.”

One flash of gold and they were plunged into darkness. Merlin’s palm came to rest upon Arthur’s sore shoulder, ready to absorb any pain which may flare in the night. The prince was still raised above him, and Merlin could feel his heavy-lidded eyes staring down at him even as they drooped closed.

“Thank you, Merlin,” Arthur whispered, catching Merlin’s chin between his thumb and forefinger to tilt his face closer. For a moment, their breath mingled in the inch long canyon which separated their mouths, before some inexorable, undefinable force pulled them together and closed the gap.

The brush of lips was whisper soft, the bare minimum of pressure, before Arthur angled more insistently against Merlin’s mouth. His lips were chapped from where he constantly worried them between his teeth, Merlin noticed through his surprise, and a breath of magic surged forwards to gently soothe them back to velvet smoothness. The embrace was tender and felt more natural than breathing - it also seemed that, just as in everything else, Merlin’s magic operated of its own accord when it came to doing things for the prince. Just as he had initiated it, Arthur was the first to pull away with an untroubled sigh. Only a few peaceful, silent minutes had passed before they were both sleeping peacefully.

Sometime in the small hours of the night, Arthur awoke slowly. As he returned to semi-consciousness, the young man realised he had never been held like this in his life. Never before had he been cradled by someone who meant a great deal to him, purely for the proximity of comfort and companionship. Merlin slept on, his hands having drifted over Arthur’s body as they slumbered, the soft, steady rhythm of his breath providing a warm breeze where his face was buried into the thatch of blonde hair at the crown of Arthur’s head.

His right hand had come to rest at the prince’s temple; even dead to the world he seemed incapable of anything but tenderness as his fingertips brushed featherlight back and forth across the pulse point there. His left hand was a little more adventurous, having slipped just south of the waistband of Arthur’s sleeping trousers. His long, slim fingers rested innocently on the curve of Arthur’s perfectly sculpted backside, the tip of his thumb dragging a demure path between the cleft of the prince’s buttocks and one of the divots bracketing the base of his spine.

Instead of any feelings of resentment, discomfort or humiliation, Arthur felt awash with serenity.Perhaps it should have felt odd, tangled together in a pile of limbs with his manservant in such an uncouth manner. It almost definitely should feel awkward, having kissed him without intention or invitation only a few hours previously, but it did not. This was them, and no matter what they did, they both seemed to feel comfortable and at ease.

Slipping one hand underneath Merlin’s tunic, he ran his fingers up the ridges of Merlin’s ribs like the strings of a lyre before nuzzling closer to his neck. If he shifted his hips a little at the same time, to make the warm left hand slide a little lower? He wasn’t complaining.


End file.
